


Playing With Fire

by CollarsAndCurses



Series: The Affairs of Inquisitor Lavellan [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, Internal Monologue, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-14 00:13:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12995589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollarsAndCurses/pseuds/CollarsAndCurses
Summary: "Suddenly it wasn't nothing. Suddenly, his smile was all you wanted to see, his silky voice all you wanted to hear, with it's Dalish lilt that had never sounded so alluring until it came from his mouth.Suddenly, you loved him."A collection of ficlets featuring Dorian Pavus and my male Inquisitor, Silas Lavellan.





	Playing With Fire

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE! NSFW chapters are marked with (E) in the title. All others are SFW regardless of the collection's overall rating.

You'd never expected to fall for someone like him. Falling for anyone at all hadn't been part of your plan, really, but especially not the Herald of Andraste. Flirting was par for the course, maybe a kiss or two and if you were lucky, a little roll in the hay. Except not actual hay, you're not that desperate. But friendship? Affection? _Love_? Those had taken you by surprise - quite rudely, you might add.

You had been talking as usual, some flirting and friendly banter thrown in like it was nothing. Then suddenly it wasn't nothing. Suddenly, his smile was all you wanted to see, his silky voice all you wanted to hear, with it's Dalish lilt that had never sounded so alluring until it came from his mouth.

Suddenly, you loved him.

You dismissed the thought immediately, of course. These feelings weren't unnatural or uncommon; he was charming, handsome, genuinely interested in what you had to say and, to top it all off, could hold his end of the conversation so that you actually wanted it to continue. Of course a little infatuation was to be expected. What you hadn't expected, was for it to be reciprocated.

And at first, you admittedly didn't notice. The Inquisitor was nice to everyone, complimented everyone, took the time to know everyone. You thought that he flirted with you because you flirted with him - and really, with both of you so dashing, it would be a crime if you didn't test the waters. Then he started to _care_ , really and truly go out of his way to show that you were important to him in a very particular way. _That_ ruined your aforementioned plans entirely.

But of course, him being him, that was all his intention. Everything went according to _his_ plan and well, when he's curled up in your lap cradling a book of Tevintan history - he says he simply must know everything about your homeland, even though you've told him he won't like it - you happen to think your plans to be rather inferior. The quick in and out, save the world, go back home seemed only fair, considering, but now you think that leaving him without at least trying would be the most unfair thing you could do, to either of you.

You tuck a piece of hair behind his ear, smiling to yourself at the way it gives a little fluttering twitch, like when you poke a sleeping cat. Then you realise that he hasn't turned the page since you began your dreadfully romantic musing and in fact, when you turn a page back over his shoulder, he makes no move at all to correct it. Another point to your theory that Elves are part feline, or at least _your_ Elf is.

“Dozed off have we, Amatus?” You ask, knowing there will be no reply except for his steady breathing.

When your Amatus sleeps, there's no waking him save for a demon attack or the presence of something sweet to wave under his nose. Leliana gives you that knowing smile when she walks by and you smile in return, holding your love just that little bit tighter. Thank goodness there's no longer any “rumour” about your relationship, no hiding behind book cases. Oh no, he's practically _flamboyant_ about it, even more than you are, which is really saying something.

You're proud to be his, proud for him to be yours. You couldn't ask for anyone better, really - he's perfect _and_ richer than you. Not that wealth matters. If he'd been a particularly bold servant in your house back in Tevinter you still would have had a taste of him, kept him if you could, treated him better than your family would think he deserved.

He rarely brings up the topic of slavery, after your first conversation on the subject left him brooding to the point where your thought his forehead might crease permanently and ruin that intricate tattoo. He doesn't talk much about what that means, either. He is proud to be Dalish, cares for his people, but you think he wouldn't mind if someone were to scrub that ink from his skin. He's infuriatingly hard to read, sometimes; far too good at The Game for his innocent eyes and wild hair.

You run a hand through those thick, dark locks and he sighs in his sleep, dropping the book in his lap to instead curl himself against your chest, nuzzling up under your jaw. Definitely catty, in more ways than one with that silver tongue of his. You do love his wit; he can make you laugh even in the most turbulent of times. Usually by insulting your opponents, which is always a nice bonus.

If you had your way, you would enjoy his company forever. But alas, even the most brilliant minds can tire, and unlike your flexible little Elven sweetheart, you cannot afford to contort yourself into a chair overnight. He barely stirs when you scoop him into your arms and stand, carrying him to his quarters with a sort of pride - even though you know he would be complaining and blushing up a storm, were he awake.

You're certain you've gotten away with it; placing him into that disgustingly luxurious bed, even managing to remove his boots before you pulled the thick duvet over his lithe body. He always feels so cold, you have no idea how he stands a room with so many windows and doors. Perhaps you're a little too worried about it, stayed a little too long or spent too much time faffing with his pillow, but either way you don't manage to slip out undisturbed.

In fact, you barely turn around before there are slender fingers on your arm and beautiful, huge eyes, half lidded with sleep, staring into yours with a silent plea you know all too well.

 _Stay_.

You hear it in your mind with his voice, too. It's ludicrous, how he can bend you to his will with a single, longing glance.

“Only because you're pretty,” you tell him, but he smiles regardless, eagerly making room for you to slide in the bed next to him.

For the amount of people he kills and the decisions he makes, he's surprisingly, _disgustingly_ sentimental. He says you bring it out in him, but honestly you think it's the other way around.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this! If that's the case I would very much appreciate a kudos/comment/bookmark!


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